“Keep talking,” I say. “It’s so sexy you’re touching yourself.” A clear vision of him jerking off forms in my mind.
“What are you wearing?”
“Black joggers and a green hedgehog T-shirt.”
“Mm,” he says.
I lock my bedroom door and cross to the bed, climbing on top of the comforter, ready to play. “Really? Should I have made something up that’s sexier? Like, is that part of the fantasy and I should tell you I’m wearing a French maid outfit, watering your plants?”
“Nope. The only thing that would be sexier is if you were naked. What color are your panties?”
“Pink,” I answer.
“Fuck. I love pink panties.” He pants a little into the phone, and I lie back, closing my eyes, letting his sounds turn me on and ease my stress. “Is it a thong, settled between your ass cheeks?”
I stick with the truth, even if he seems excited at the prospect of ass floss. “No, ugh. They’re bikini panties with a little bow in the center.”
“Mm. I love bows on panties. What does your bra look like?”
I really need to buy some more of the good ones. “Pink with a little bow in the center,” I fib, because the ol’ white sports bra is just not sexy.
“Ah, I love it. Wish I could see it.” Please don’t let him ask for a picture. He doesn’t, thank God. “Touch yourself for me. Tell me if you’re wet.”
I plant my feet on the bed and slide a hand down my stomach into my panties. “Yeah, I’m wet. So wet.” Is that enough? I throw another one in for good measure. “So very wet.”
“Damn. My cock is throbbing.”
I moan, imagining his thighs quivering as he fists himself.
“Squeeze your nipples and think about me taking them in my mouth. Mm. Sucking until you beg me to fuck you. Biting and licking until you come.” He groans and I do what he asks, squeezing the hardened peaks, losing my inhibitions in the shamelessness of masturbating with him.
Phone sex is fun and naughty, the perfect way to distract me...and also lonely.
As much as I’m enjoying this, my touch isn’t the same. There’s no tongue or stubble to heighten the sensation. There are no deep kisses to make my heart pound out of my chest. And after all the time I’ve spent with Austin lately, I can’t help but picture him instead of Logan.
The vision of Austin tormenting me won’t go away as I edge myself closer to orgasm, moving my fingers faster as Logan says filthy things into my ear as he jerks off.
“I’m going to come, Chloe,” he says, grunting and filling the phone with sensual sounds.
I’ve reached new lows when I imagine that Austin is the one groaning in my ear as I come too.
When our pants subside, he says, “That was phenomenal. Let’s do this again.”
“Yeah, let’s.” Hopefully, that didn’t sound as unenthusiastic to him as it did to me.
Why do I feel like an entire year’s progress just collapsed into a lump of clay? At least the only rocks in my life now are in the garden.
Six
Logan has been gone for more than a month and my thoughts are growing ominous. Are we even still dating? We talk to each other at least every other day for a few minutes, and have phone sex probably once a week, but I’m too nervous to find out he’s banging roadies so I don’t bring anything like that up when he calls me.
And I’m certainly not bringing up that more times than not, someone else occupies the space in my head when I orgasm during our pseudo-sex sessions.
Through the window over the kitchen sink, I watch Austin unroll the hose so he can water the garden. Lean muscles ripple beneath his blue T-shirt as he jerks at a tangle to free it, giving me fodder for more phone sex fantasies. Stop it, Chloe, I whisper to myself, and dump my coffee into the sink when Austin catches me staring and smiles.
I’d like to say I don’t give a toothy grin back, but I can’t. This is not how adults act. Maybe I’m destined to forever be a child in a woman’s body. I hope someone lets my crow’s foot know. With a sigh, I move over to my laptop and check my email.
Exclamation points pop in my head when I see the gallery owner scheduled an interview.
“Just a formality,” he assures in his brief email. “I’d trust Ryan with my life. Great guy. If you ever find yourself in some monkey business…”
My fingers shake as I type my reply, thanking him profusely for the opportunity and hoping I win bonus points by assuring him I steer clear of primate nonsense.
“Our babies are starting to grow,” Austin says, bounding in the back door, bringing the scent of sunshine and forbidden fantasies with him.
“It’s adorable how excited you are about homegrown cucumbers and tomatoes,” I say.
He grins. “Can’t wait for the first harvest.”
“What are you going to make?” I hit send on my email and close my laptop.
He lounges back against the counter, resting his palms on the granite. Our little sprouts are indeed growing, on every windowsill, and some in the patch outside too. “The best salad you’ve ever had.”
“Hm. Really? I don’t know if a salad is as satisfying as say…pasta?”
“Chloe,” he makes a tsk sound, “have I taught you nothing? Let me show you how fantastic salad can be.” He strolls to the fridge and opens it.
“Well, not to salad-shame, but they’re all kind of the same.”
“I disagree.” He turns around with his hands full of items and I watch as he arranges them on the counter before grabbing two white plates from the cabinet. “Come here.”
Oh dear. The way he says it, bossy, with a glance at me beneath his lashes, has me complying with his directions.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
His dark eyes flare, and his sultry gaze drops to my mouth for a beat before he continues with his show-and-tell, splitting open the head of greenleaf lettuce with his hands. “I’ll admit a salad can be boring if it’s not done right. I’ll even go so far as to say you’ve probably had a good salad. Probably even thought it was great. And most likely it was because that’s all you knew at the time. You had nothing to compare it to.” He glances down at me. “But it wasn’t the best. And you know why?”
I shake my head, unsure if we’re really talking about salad. “No. Why?”
“Because it wasn’t my salad.”
Seconds tick away as we stare at each other. “I’d like to have your salad.”
He mesmerizes me with a rake of his teeth across his bottom lip before he selects a knife from the block. “We don’t just eat with our taste buds, Chloe. Our minds have a big say in whether we enjoy something.”
Don’t I know it. “I can see that.”
He fondles a ripe tomato. “Vegetables can be sexy. You need to handle them right.”
I’ll agree with that statement. Especially when it’s held in his hand. “You have to grip the tender flesh, firm but gentle enough not to bruise.”
I’ll never make it out of this salad lesson alive. He makes a cut. “See the juices?”
“Yeah, the juices are flowing,” I murmur.